Memories and Legacies
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke and Leslie are stunned by a tragic loss. Follows 'Smoke Screen'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This story wasn't easy to write, yet there were times when the things I wanted to say simply poured out of me. Any fan of_ Fantasy Island _knows that it just wasn't the same without the character of Tattoo, and I wanted to reflect that feeling in this story. So this is written and posted in fond memory of both the character and the multi-talented actor who portrayed him. _

**P.S.** _There's a small in-joke somewhere in this story. If you're the first to correctly guess it in a review, you'll get a "walk-on" part in a future story…guaranteed! (I'll contact you for necessary information if you win.) As always, much gratitude to my reviewers and readers, and may you all have a happy, healthy and prosperous 2006._

* * *

§ § § -- July 17, 1995

It was one of those quiet, sultry Wednesday evenings after a long day at work, and Roarke and Leslie were both dressed for the weather, having a very light supper on the veranda. Sunset was in progress, and there evidently was a storm somewhere well offshore, for its clouds lent a brilliantly red hue to the event and cast the rosy color over everything on the island. A listless breeze occasionally drifted past, without bringing relief.

A postal jeep from town came around the bend in the lane and stopped in front of the main house, and a young man hopped out and approached the gazebo part of the veranda where the table sat. "Mr. Roarke? I have a telegram for you, sir," he said, extending a hand in Roarke's direction.

Roarke hid his initial reaction to these words, while Leslie watched in surprise, and accepted the small yellow paper. "Thank you, Paul," he said, handing the man a five-dollar bill. Paul nodded and smiled.

"Thank _you_, sir. Hello, Miss Leslie. Have a good evening." Paul returned to the jeep, and Roarke watched him as if the process of Paul's getting into the vehicle and starting it were incredibly fascinating. Leslie grew perplexed.

"Father, you never get telegrams," she said, her voice carrying a note of worry under the puzzlement. "What's it say?"

Roarke drew in a deep breath: he knew the meaning of the telegram, and he also knew that within a very few seconds, his and Leslie's world would change forever. Slowly he unfolded the page and scanned the lines on it, then closed his eyes. Leslie grew alarmed and sat up, leaning across the table.

He sensed her movement and met her gaze. "My child, brace yourself," he said softly. "The telegram is from Solange…Tattoo has passed on." He saw the shock slowly spread across her face and reached across the table to take her hand. "It happened mere hours ago, just this morning at their home."

When Leslie spoke again, her voice cracked. "You mean Tattoo's…he's…dead?"

Roarke nodded as if his head were too heavy to move. "Yes," he murmured. "Leslie, sweetheart, do you remember what I told you a few days after you returned home from your trip to visit Tattoo and his family, and that he asked me to break the news to you? The time has finally come. You know he carried on for the sake of his family's well-being, so that he could make their lives as financially secure for them as possible before he was no longer there to do so."

She nodded faintly, dazed, but her wide blue eyes held the look of a child who has been betrayed yet again. They watched each other in silence, both still too stunned to release their brand-new grief just yet, clutching each other's hands. Neither saw Mariki coming out with the kitchen cart until she was standing almost right on top of them; and the cook blinked when she took in their stance and mien. "Is everything all right?" she asked tentatively, instantly sensing something amiss.

They both started and stared at her; Roarke looked almost as dumbfounded as Leslie, which unnerved Mariki. "Maybe I should return later," she suggested.

Roarke shook his head quickly. "No, Mariki, go ahead," he said. "We are finished here for the evening. When you've completed cleaning the kitchen, you and the staff may leave for the night. I'll call you when you are needed again."

Mariki gasped. "What's wrong, sir?" she exclaimed.

"Tattoo…" Leslie croaked, her voice failing after just the one word. Her gaze lost focus and she sat silent in her chair.

Roarke drew in a breath again, as though for fortification, and explained quietly, "Tattoo has passed away, Mariki. Please, don't say anything just yet. We found out only moments ago, and there is a great deal for us to do…but we need some time."

Mariki nodded, shocked, her eyes immediately filling with tears. "Oh dear, Mr. Roarke, what a tragedy. I'm so sorry…what an incredible loss." She brushed at her eyes and stood trying to regain her composure. Roarke understood.

"Take your time, Mariki," he said gently, rising. Leslie automatically followed suit, though she seemed to be in some other world. "You need not hurry." He laid a hand on her shoulder for just a moment before gathering Leslie in close and slowly crossing the porch toward the front door.

Inside the study, Roarke stopped his daughter and tipped her head back so that she focused on him. "Leslie, you'll remember when you first came to the island and refused to release your emotions…I'm saying it again: don't hold it inside you. It will make you ill."

Leslie, for her part, felt trapped in the eye of a hurricane, with disjointed thoughts and emotions whipping around her brain in ever-decreasing circles. Roarke's words seemed to break a barrier, and those thoughts and emotions stopped spinning around her to converge on her all at once. "He's gone," she said in a small, stunned voice. "Another one, Father…"

He knew what she meant and closed his eyes again. For someone only thirty years old, Leslie had suffered a great deal of loss; even he himself couldn't recall having lost so many loved ones at such a young age. But he had been around long enough to have the experience many, many times over, and also to know that every loss brought fresh pain. "I know, child, I know," he said.

Panic and pain gleamed out of her eyes and she reached out for him, like a small child asking to be picked up. "You're all that's left," she said, her voice little more than a tiny squeak. "Don't leave me, please…" With that, she broke down, and he pulled her into a hard embrace, holding her tightly while she sobbed. Her grief seemed to penetrate him and his own composure broke; he too began to cry, clinging to her as much as she did him.

§ § § -- July 18, 1995

Neither Roarke nor Leslie had slept the entire night; they had cried off and on, in between Roarke making telephone calls to the guests who had been scheduled to arrive that weekend and explaining succinctly that he found it necessary to postpone their fantasies due to a death in the family. While dawn slowly brightened the landscape, he picked up the phone one more time and dialed the three-digit number that put him in touch with the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_. As painful as it would be, he knew it must be done; everyone on the island had known Tattoo.

Leslie, her eyes bloodshot and her posture drooping, stared at him as he spoke quietly with someone at the paper. "We've got to give an interview?"

Roarke, hanging up, smiled faintly. "It will be very difficult, I know," he admitted, "but in the end, it's the easiest way to break the news to the entire island. The only photographs in the article will be those of Tattoo, of course. Leslie, sweetheart, I know it's very difficult for you—but please try to hold your composure as much as possible. Solange and the children are coming to the island and they will be bringing Tattoo's attorney, for he asked that his will be read here. And…" He hesitated, once again reaching for her hand, then concluded, "Tattoo sent me a copy of his will, Leslie. I never read the entire document, but I did take note that he requested burial here on Fantasy Island. So we will have the funeral here once his body arrives. We are all grieving, sweetheart, and if you can try to be strong until his family arrives and the funeral is held…believe me, it will be easier for all of us, for we can grieve together and share our stories and memories of him."

She slowly drew her lower lip between her teeth and nodded reluctantly. "I just wish I could…" She cleared her throat, trying to steady her voice. "I feel like I've been run over by a 747. All I really want to do is hide in my room…I don't want to see anyone."

"I understand," Roarke said, squeezing her hand, "but unfortunately that simply isn't possible. You and I are public figures both on and off the island. Once the word gets out beyond the island—and beyond France as well, I might add—we may find ourselves set upon by news agencies from all over the world, asking for comments and details." He leaned forward and gazed earnestly at her. "You still don't see it, Leslie, but you have an inner strength that has served you well in the past. Rely on it now, and it will see you through."

She only gazed bleakly back at him, and he gave her hand another squeeze before releasing it. "Perhaps you should try to freshen up a little. The reporter from the newspaper should be here shortly." Without acknowledging this, she arose from the chair and shuffled to the steps, climbing them in a defeated manner, beginning to cry silently halfway up. Roarke winced and rested his head in his hands, indulging himself just long enough to let the worst of a new wave of grief work itself out of his system.

Fifteen minutes later the editor of the "Humanities" section of the paper came in and took a seat; Leslie was quiet, a little pale but composed, and had even applied fresh makeup. Roarke, though somber, smiled slightly in welcome; but his own grief shone from his dark eyes. Leslie had settled beside him, behind the desk, as if shielding herself. For her, it was a relief that the person who had come for the interview wasn't Myeko.

The editor cleared his throat; he was a native islander and thus as familiar with Tattoo as anyone beyond the main house could be. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie," he said, swallowing. "It was a total shock when your call came."

"Of course," Roarke said. "I am afraid it will be a shock to the entire island. We have, of course, suspended operations for the immediate future. Tattoo's family is bringing his body here to the island, as this is where he will be buried, and they are expected here sometime this evening. I believe you have Tattoo's biographical information on file."

"We do, yes…but I thought it might be less cold and stark if we could add a few personal recollections to the article," the editor said hopefully, pad and pencil waiting. He had already made a few notes but looked a little uncertain, as if in awe of his subjects and of their very emotions. "This kind of thing is what we call an 'evergreen', something we hold till it's needed, you see…but it's very barebones, you know, and we just thought…"

Roarke nodded. "Yes, we understand. It's very difficult. We received word only last evening. If I had words that could express Tattoo's character…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head.

"Miss Leslie?" the editor asked gently.

Tears shone in her eyes again as she stared at him. "He was the closest thing I ever had to an uncle," she told him, her voice cracking repeatedly as she spoke. "There were times I couldn't talk with Father, for whatever reason, and Tattoo would be there to listen to me and help me find a solution. And now he's…" She, too, shook her head, lost for words. "I don't know what to say. He's gone and it feels like some bad dream."

The editor nodded and cleared his throat again. "I, uh…geez, Mr. Roarke, I really hate to ask this kind of thing, but…we need to know…date of passing and that kind of thing…"

"We don't have the full details," Roarke told him, "but it's my understanding that he passed on at his home yesterday morning, local time. I suspect that if you listen to the news services, you may learn more than we know. Perhaps it's best to run a preliminary story now, and you might return later for more information. I'll notify you."

The editor nodded once more and got to his feet, wincing. "I gotta tell you, this is the one thing I hate the most about this job. Trying to get information from grieving relatives, asking intrusive questions like that, makes me feel like the lowest form of life there is. But you know everyone on the island is here if you and Miss Leslie need anything at all. No matter what it is, just ask."

"Yes, yes…thank you," Roarke said, half rising to shake the man's hand. Through her tears, Leslie actually managed to produce a tiny smile of gratitude.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- July 18, 1995

**AN ICON PASSES ON** (the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_)

PARIS, FRANCE, JULY 18—Tattoo, former assistant to our own Mr. Roarke and an artist of world renown, died yesterday morning at his home. He was 52 years old. Born in France, he came to Fantasy Island as a very young man and served as Mr. Roarke's assistant for many years, leaving the island in 1983 upon his marriage to dancer Solange Latignon. They made their home in the Parisian suburbs, where Mr. Tattoo gained fame as a highly talented painter and operated an art gallery specializing in the work of new and rising artists. Among his regular patrons was Prince Errico V of Arcolos, as well as dignitaries and celebrities from all over Europe and North America. The artist is survived by his wife; their three children, Patrick, 10, Antoinette, 9, and Mireille, 3; and Mr. Roarke and his daughter, Leslie Hamilton, whom Mr. Tattoo considered an "honorary niece". The funeral is to be held here on Fantasy Island, where Mr. Tattoo will be buried.

The charter bearing Solange, the children, the lawyer, and Tattoo's coffin landed early that evening, shortly past sunset when dusk had begun to slowly reveal the brightest stars. Roarke and Leslie were the only ones at the dock. Word had spread across the island within an hour, as soon as the paper distributed its morning edition with Tattoo's obituary and a few attendant photographs taking up the entire front page.

Greetings were murmured and hugs exchanged; little Mireille made a beeline for Leslie and stretched her arms up. Solange noticed. "Mireille, don't bother _cousine_," she began, but Leslie shook her head.

"It's okay, Solange," she said, lifting the little girl and hugging her tightly as Mireille wrapped her arms around Leslie's neck and buried her face in the young woman's shoulder. Leslie clung to the child almost as tightly in return, squeezing her eyes shut as a fresh wave of grief assaulted her, yet feeling comforted in some odd way simply from holding Tattoo's youngest child. The others gathered around and stood for a few moments, reigning in their emotions, while Patrick and Antoinette both wiped away tears and Solange looked wistfully at Roarke. Roarke smiled slightly.

"Mr. Roarke, this is Tattoo's lawyer, Donatien Moreau," Solange explained, and Moreau and Roarke shook hands. _"M'sieur_, I think you know Mr. Roarke already, and this is his daughter, Leslie Hamilton." Leslie managed a weak smile of greeting, shifted Mireille slightly and shook hands with Moreau.

"I am sorry that we must meet at such a sorrowful time," Moreau said to Leslie and Roarke, looking genuinely sympathetic. "Mr. Tattoo was a friend and one of my very best clients. I believe you know, Mr. Roarke, that he requested burial here."

Roarke nodded. "Yes, indeed I did. Undoubtedly you have all had an extremely long and exhausting trip, and we have set aside bungalows for you to rest. We have closed down business for the next five days, and if necessary, we can extend that period."

"I can't sleep," Solange murmured through an ironically-timed yawn. "I want to, but I still can't believe he's gone. I haven't been able to accept it yet. Donatien, when do you want to have the reading?"

"I think after the funeral is soon enough," Moreau said. "We all need rest. Thank you, Mr. Roarke, for your kind hospitality, even in the face of such tragedy."

"_Maman_, I want to stay with Leslie," Mireille announced unexpectedly, lifting her head from her shoulder to address Solange.

"Mireille, Leslie doesn't have room for you," Solange said, looking assaulted. "I'm sorry, Leslie, but she knew all the while that we would be seeing you, and all she could talk about was you. If she bothers you, just leave her to me."

Leslie shook her head. "She doesn't bother me at all," she said. "I'll stay with her as long as you need me to, Solange…read her a story or whatever." She swallowed back the tears that had begun to thicken her voice and moved swiftly out ahead of the group, still carrying Mireille. Solange cast Roarke a helpless look, but Roarke smiled again.

"I think Leslie derives some comfort from Mireille's attachment to her," he said softly to Solange. "She was hit quite hard by this latest loss in her life, and she has refused to see anyone else all day, although a few of her friends stopped by hoping to express their sorrow and condolences. Tattoo's passing has been a tremendous blow to all of us. Perhaps it would be beneficial for both Leslie and Mireille if you indulge the child, just for tonight."

Solange sighed. "I just don't want Mireille imposing on Leslie. You and she have enough to deal with as it is."

"Don't worry, Solange," Roarke said. "I'm sure Leslie doesn't mind at all."

They dropped off Moreau at the hotel, where he had insisted on taking a room, and then brought Solange and the children to their bungalow. Patrick and Antoinette, though clearly as worn-out as Solange, found themselves unable to sleep either, and before Roarke and Leslie could leave the Latignon family to themselves, Antoinette suddenly spoke up. "Mr. Roarke? _Cousine_? What was _Papá_ like when he lived here?"

Roarke and Leslie stopped and looked at each other in surprise. Mireille, clinging to Leslie's hand, piped up, "Leslie, tell me a story about _Papá."_

For the first time since the telegram had arrived, a light appeared in Leslie's eyes, and she grinned, surprising and relieving Roarke. "I have an idea," she whispered to him and turned to the little girl. "Mireille, if I do tell you a story, will you put on your nightgown and get into bed? For that matter, I'll tell your brother and sister and mother the same story. It's a funny one."

The Latignons looked at one another curiously. "We need a good laugh," Solange said at last. "I'm so tired of crying."

"Me too," Patrick admitted. _"Papá_ never talked much about his life when he was here. He just said he missed you and Mr. Roarke, but when we asked questions he didn't feel like answering them. So I'd like to hear stories about him."

"What kind of story is it?" Antoinette asked.

"Well, it's about how your father once became the invisible man," Leslie said with an impish little grin. "Will you get ready for bed so I can tell you about it, Mireille?"

The little girl bobbed her head eagerly. "Okay! _Maman_, come help me!"

Within a few minutes Mireille was tucked in, and the older children had also changed into their nightclothes and were seated on the bed near their little sister, waiting eagerly. Roarke had taken a seat in one of the chairs, while Solange had stretched her tired legs on the loveseat. Leslie settled on the side of the bed nearest Mireille and took in Tattoo's three children with a smile that wavered only slightly. "It happened the year I turned fifteen," she said. "Your father came in from some rounds on a very hot day, noticed a glass of something on Father's desk, and drank it before Father could tell him not to. And when Father looked around for your _papá_, he couldn't see him anywhere!"

"You mean he was really invisible?" Antoinette exclaimed.

Leslie nodded, grinning. "He certainly was. He'd drunk a potion that Father was still working on, so he stayed invisible for the rest of the weekend." She focused on Solange, whose hand had gone up in a vain attempt to cover a wide smile. "That's the last time Tattoo drank anything without knowing what it was."

Solange snickered. "I just bet it was! How did you come into the picture, though?"

"Oh…he and Father decided to play a little trick on me," Leslie said, and proceeded to relate the story of Tattoo's taking advantage of his invisibility.

§ § § -- March 1, 1980

At the pool, Roarke spotted his ward sitting with all five of her friends. Leslie was clearly surprised to see him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"No…it's only that Tattoo had a slight mishap, and I may have to send you out to do some of his errands," Roarke told her and surveyed her friends. "Hello, girls. I'm afraid Leslie's free time has just ended, but if all is well, you might come by for her tomorrow."

Leslie's friends looked at one another in curiosity, but they didn't ask questions; like most of the islanders, they generally expected Roarke to be cryptic. They simply nodded in acceptance and said goodbye to Leslie, who waved back and trailed Roarke out of the pool area and to the car. "Where _is_ Tattoo?" she asked.

"At the house," Roarke said, then added under his breath, "I hope." Starting the car, he asked Leslie if she had enjoyed her swim, the answer to which kept her occupied for the short drive back to the main house. He parked the car near the fountain and followed her into the house, where once she got inside, she tossed her towel across a chair and started to lean down to remove her sandals.

Before she could move more than a fraction, or Roarke have time to react, the towel went flying right back into the air again. "Watch where you're throwing things!" squawked an indignant voice.

Leslie's eyes popped and stark terror radiated from her face; she stumbled backwards toward the stairs, and nearly tripped on the bottom step. As it was, she sat down hard enough to make Roarke wince on her behalf. Speechless, she gaped at Roarke and pointed at the chair, mouth open, eyes enormous and her entire arm shaking.

"Yes, I know," Roarke said calmly, picking up the towel. "Take that upstairs, if you would be so kind, and then change your clothing." He watched Leslie attempt to gather her widely scattered wits for a long moment, while he stood holding the proffered towel at her and very carefully controlling a smile. Finally she took the towel from him and eased up the stairs backwards, one wary step at a time, all the while staring at the seemingly empty chair. Roarke watched her go for a moment, then shook his head and retreated behind his desk.

"I scared her to death, didn't I," Tattoo's voice remarked.

"Undoubtedly you shortened her lifespan by at least five years," Roarke agreed and spread out some balance sheets across the desk. Tattoo chuckled, and Roarke quirked a smile before putting his full attention to the paperwork.

It took Leslie an unusually long time to return downstairs, and when she did come back, she took the steps warily, carefully scanning the room. By then Roarke was adding up columns of figures, and the room was quiet. But when she finally stepped off the last stair tread and stopped there, Roarke looked up. "What's the matter, Leslie?"

"You said Tattoo was here," she said accusingly. "But he's not."

"Oh yes I am," Tattoo immediately responded, all wounded dignity. "I'm right in this room, the same as you. So you better watch out where you sit."

"I don't get it," Leslie finally exploded in exasperation. "Would someone kindly tell me what's going on around here, or are you having too much fun at my expense to bother?"

Roarke relented then, chuckling. "The reason you can't see Tattoo is that he accidentally drank the invisibility potion I've been working on," he explained to her. "So far he shows no signs of becoming visible again, and as you can see if you think it over, that makes it difficult for him to carry out most of his usual duties."

"Oh," Leslie said softly, drawing the word out as she considered the ramifications of this explanation. "So that's what this is all about. Well, then, Tattoo, if you don't want me accidentally squashing you, you might want to tell me which chair you're in."

"The same one you threw the towel on," he said pointedly.

"Oh," she said again, this time sheepishly. "Sorry about that." She rounded the chair Tattoo claimed to be occupying and took the one beside it, all the while eyeing the first chair as if she expected Tattoo to abruptly reappear in it. "So what's it feel like?"

"What, being invisible? I don't feel any different," Tattoo said. Silence fell for about fifteen seconds; then he lost patience. "What are you _staring_ at?"

"Nothing," Leslie answered before she thought, then gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, her guilty gaze shifting to Roarke, who burst out laughing. Stricken then by the funny side of her remark, she slumped in her chair, convulsed with giggles.

"Oh, very funny," snapped Tattoo in irritation. "You know, I'm not so sure you two aren't playing a little joke on me. I can see myself, after all, so how do I know you two can't see me?"

"Honest, Tattoo, I can't see you," Leslie insisted, trying to control her merriment. "I know you're in that chair only because you say you are, but…" At that point Tattoo, testing her, picked up the book he had laid aside earlier. From Leslie's point of view it suddenly floated off the floor, and she yanked her entire upper torso to one side, shock all over her face. "Oh my God," she blurted.

"Well, I suppose that proves _you_ can't see me at least," Tattoo said. "Come on, boss, tell me the truth…you can see me, right?"

"No, Tattoo, I can't," Roarke said serenely, having regained his composure.

"Really, boss, you can tell me," Tattoo insisted.

Roarke shook his head. "Truly, my friend, I can't see you at all. In actual fact, that wasn't my intention with regard to that potion. It leaves far too much room for malicious intent, and I can't have that. I'll have to adjust the formula again."

"I would too," Leslie said, shuddering despite the heat. "It's really creepy not knowing if somebody's there or not—look what Tattoo did to me when I first walked in here with you." A shutter banged closed then on one of the windows and she started violently in her seat, gasping loudly.

"Tattoo," Roarke admonished.

"Just checking, boss," Tattoo said blithely.

"I believe we have established that you cannot be seen by anyone, and certainly not by Leslie," Roarke reminded him a little testily. "If I had any doubt that the formula isn't ready for use, you have utterly eradicated it. Enough is enough."

"Oh, all right, boss," Tattoo said, sighing. "But I can't help myself. I'm bored and I was just trying to have a little fun."

"I can live without that kind of fun," Leslie said shortly.

Roarke resumed adding figures. "Perhaps you'd better return home after all, Tattoo," he said. "You can't do much in your current condition, and there is no way to know when the formula will wear off. So consider this an afternoon off."

"Oh, okay, thanks, boss!" Tattoo said, sounding considerably more cheerful. They heard the sounds of his shoes crossing the floor and climbing the steps into the foyer; the door opened, then closed again. Leslie blew out a breath and relaxed at last.

"_Thank_ you," she said wholeheartedly to Roarke. "I might've gotten up and throttled him if you hadn't done that…that is, if I could've found him first." Roarke laughed again.

§ § § -- July 18, 1995

By the time she was through, they were all laughing, Mireille in particular. "Solange, have the children ever met Tattoo's cousin Hugo?" Roarke asked. Solange shook her head and rolled her eyes, and Roarke and Leslie laughed. "He spent several years falling for Hugo's plans to make millions overnight, and every one of them failed spectacularly. I recall an idea Hugo gave him about a cigarette lighter that supposedly worked only on water. I finally suggested he market it to smokers who were trying to quit."

"What about the time when he was working on some kind of rocket fuel, and blew up the study?" Leslie put in. "And then, even worse, he tried to turn it into an alcoholic drink, and almost killed you with it."

Roarke winced playfully. "Indeed…and then, of course, there were his assorted impersonations. We were particularly impressed by his Bing Crosby imitation…until we learned he was merely lip-synching to a recording." At that even Solange broke into merriment at last, in spite of the tears that had overflowed.

Patrick said wistfully, "I wish he had told us this stuff. We never knew about all those things."

"Why did he call you his niece?" Antoinette wanted to know. "He talked about you and Mr. Roarke a lot, but he didn't tell us why he said you were his niece."

"Well, his honorary niece, really," Leslie said, casting back half a lifetime and more. "As a matter of fact, it goes all the way back to my very first day on Fantasy Island, several months after my family died. Your father was the first person here to try to set me at ease. He could see I was very scared and felt as if I didn't belong, and he tried to make me feel better." She gazed into space, letting the memory play across her mind's eye as the others watched her. "I was completely in awe of Father then and sort of frightened of him too, and Tattoo acted as something of a bridge between us. He tended to tease us both, and now that I think about it, I can see what he was doing. He'd get us to laugh and join in, and I think Father and I slowly developed a bond without really realizing it, thanks to Tattoo."

"My _papá_ was nice to you," Mireille murmured sleepily, as if confirming things to herself. "He made you feel better."

"That's right, sweetie," Leslie said with a soft smile. "He had a way of making everybody feel better. He had a big smile and an even bigger heart. He'd do anything for you and never expect anything in return, but it always made me want to do something nice back. Remember the paints I gave him for his birthday the year you first met him, Solange?"

Solange smiled mistily. "I could never forget that. He was so amazed—I can still see his expression when he opened the packages." She caught Patrick's and Antoinette's looks of surprise. "I was here for your father's birthday a couple of years before we were married. We felt something even then, but he insisted that I have my chance to dance. But before I left with the dance company, he painted my portrait—the same one that hangs in the family room." Patrick and Antoinette looked at each other, round-eyed with discovery. A tiny sigh broke the momentary silence, and Leslie focused on Mireille, who had fallen asleep.

"She's down for the count, Solange," Leslie said softly, and smiled at the other children. "I think we're all tired. Father and I couldn't sleep last night, and I'm feeling it now. I'm sure he is too."

"Yes, I must admit, I am," Roarke confessed. "Perhaps it's best to leave further tales for tomorrow. It's late, and we are all exhausted, even if we don't all feel it." He winked at Patrick and Antoinette.

"I'm so glad you both stayed," Solange said, rising with them and accompanying them to the door. "Just hearing your stories about Tattoo has been a real help. I'll look forward to more tomorrow. Thank you both, and I hope you have a restful night."

"You too," Leslie said, and the two young women shared a rueful look. "As much as possible, at least." Solange nodded knowingly, and they all bid one another good night.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- July 19, 1995

It was early afternoon, and the entire day had been overcast, an unusual occurrence for Fantasy Island. The barge carrying Tattoo's flower-bedecked coffin waited beside the dock, where Roarke and Leslie stood each with an arm around the other, beset anew with their memories of Tattoo and only half aware of the growing crowd of islanders gathering along both sides of the river that ran out of the island's largest lagoon toward the South Pacific. It was a particularly eerie experience for Roarke and Leslie, who had endured the same tragic journey after Helena Marsh's death.

Solange and the children came abreast of them, drawing them both from their respective reveries. "I guess it's time," Solange murmured, glancing at the coffin.

Roarke nodded and stepped onto the barge first, giving Leslie a hand and then Solange, who in her turn helped her children aboard. Several brawny young men waited in silence for the signal to send the barge on its way. As though standing guard, Roarke took up a position just behind the head of the coffin; Solange stood on one side of him and Leslie on the other, and he loosely rested one arm around each of them. Patrick and Antoinette stood in front of the three adults, with Mireille in between her brother and sister.

Onshore, Leslie's friends and their families stood in one extended group, watching her with some anxiety. They were just far enough down the riverbank that they couldn't quite make out the expression on Leslie's features, and they all thought she looked defeated somehow, as if this latest loss had been the final blow to her endurance. They all squinted at her as the barge slid slowly past them, noting her bowed head and closed eyes.

"I hope she'll see us before much longer," Myeko murmured worriedly. "I don't think she looks very good." Frida Rosseby nodded silently, blue eyes sorrowful.

"At least she's out of the house," Lauren said hesitantly, clutching the hand of her husband, Brian. They had returned from an extended honeymoon barely a week before, so that hearing of Tattoo's death seemed all the more tragic by comparison.

"We'd better give her at least a few more days," Tabitha suggested softly from the embrace of her own husband of six weeks, Fernando.

Maureen nodded. "I think you're right. Maybe if just us girls go together…" She looked at Michiko, who had been notified by her parents the previous morning when the elder Tokitas had received their morning paper and had immediately departed Arcolos with Prince Errico for Fantasy Island. Michiko nodded faintly.

"We should check with Mr. Roarke first," she said. "If the funeral's hard on us and all the rest of the island, I can only imagine what they're going through—him, Leslie, and especially Tattoo's family. His little daughter there is just adorable…poor little one, to lose her father at such a young age." Michiko, always empathetic, blinked away tears, and the other girls nodded silently. Even Camille, normally so outspoken, was subdued, to the point that she could find no words at all.

The funeral itself was mercifully short, but it seemed like the final straw when it came time for the grave to be filled in. Roarke dropped a flower atop the coffin, deep sadness gleaming from his eyes; Leslie followed suit and turned away, hand to her mouth, eyes squeezed shut and tears streaming out from under the lids. Solange's chin trembled when her flower landed on the coffin, but when the children had dropped theirs in and the first shovelful of dirt followed, she broke down completely. Her children, terrified by their mother's grief, all began to cry in their turn, and Leslie scooped up a wailing Mireille before joining the others in their grieving huddle. None of them could watch the new grave being filled in; it seemed to be the official, final seal of Tattoo's death, the one action that made the whole tragic event finally hit home.

Unnoticed by the principal mourners, countless islanders filed one by one past Tattoo's grave, making their own final farewells; the line moved slowly but steadily along and continued shuffling past the grave long after the Latignons, Roarke and Leslie had left the area to go on grieving in private. It was dark before the last of the mourners were able to pay their respects and go on home.

§ § § -- July 20, 1995

Tattoo's will had been read and the Latignons had boarded the plane to make the long journey home to France. Roarke and Leslie stood now beside the deserted plane dock, watching the seaplane crossing the lagoon preparatory to takeoff; Leslie, holding a videotape that Solange had given her at the last moment, turned the cassette over and over in her hands. Not till the little craft came into sight above the treetops did Roarke and Leslie move from the spot, going to the station wagon that waited for them and settling silently into their seats for the ride home. The driver looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he didn't; and no one spoke all the way back to the main house, except for Roarke's quiet thanks when he and Leslie got out.

Inside the study they both stopped; Leslie felt lost, and even Roarke looked uncertain for a long moment. He turned to her and asked gently, "Do you feel up to watching the tape now, sweetheart, or would you rather wait?"

Leslie bit her lip and stared pleadingly at him. "I don't know if I could handle it now, seeing his last message to us. I'd rather remember the happier times."

Roarke nodded. "I understand completely. Perhaps it would help if your friends were to come for a little visit. I saw them a short distance behind us among the crowds who came to the funeral, and I am sure they're very worried about you."

"Well, I…" Leslie began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Roarke went to answer it and smiled when he saw who was there.

"Speak of the devil," he said. "Come in, everyone, please." He stepped aside to allow all seven of Leslie's friends to file past him into the foyer. Prince Errico brought up the rear and grasped Roarke's hands, murmuring condolences.

"He was a friend of mine too," the prince said as the eight young women watched. "I could hardly believe the terrible news. The world is a much sadder place without him, Mr. Roarke, much sadder indeed."

"But better for his having been in it," replied Roarke with quiet gratitude. "I thank you most sincerely for your sentiments, Your Highness. May we get you anything?"

"No, no, my dear sir, I won't impose on your grieving. I merely wished to express my emotions at this time and to leave my dear wife with her friends. I'll simply return to our bungalow, thank you." The prince backed out and pulled the door shut behind him, and Roarke turned to his daughter and her friends, who stood in a loose, uncertain group in the middle of the study, all looking as if they had just met for the first time.

"You put up the painting," Maureen said suddenly, taking note of the beautiful canvas that Tattoo had sent Leslie for her birthday only two months before. "It looks perfect right there." She looked at Leslie, eyes wide with sympathy. "Imagine all the paintings he must have still had in him…what an amazing talent."

"I must have half a dozen of his works by now," Leslie said, her voice faraway. She still felt as though someone had taken her whole world and shaken it like a snow globe. "Every time I look around, there's a reminder…" Her voice thickened and wobbled on the final word, cueing her friends to gather around her in a small, protective huddle while she cried again, still clutching the videotape.

Roarke waited patiently in the foyer, allowing them a few minutes in sad silence before clearing his throat and stepping down into the study. The other girls moved aside to let him into their circle, and he nodded thanks. "Leslie," he said softly, cradling her face in his hands, "I am sure you know better than almost anyone else in the world that Tattoo would prefer to be remembered with smiles instead of tears. His was the kind of soul that thrived on joy, don't you remember? Can you imagine how distressed he would be if he could see you grieving like this?"

She stared at him, processing this, and Camille picked up on his words. "Yeah, Leslie, I still remember the first New Year's party we went to after you came to live here. He was dancing up a storm with every female within a fifty-yard radius and having a great old time, laughing it up. Every time he laughed, it made me laugh too."

Leslie nodded in recollection, and Myeko spoke up then. "Hey, I seem to remember he had this really goofy fantasy once. Something about having women admiring him and everybody looking up to him…"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, the same memory hitting them both simultaneously, and out of nowhere they both laughed. "He wrote you a letter calling himself 'H. L. Oottat'," Leslie remembered, her tears battling with her giggles, "and he wanted to be nothing less than a love god—completely irresistible to all women."

"H. L. Oottat?" blurted Tabitha, blinking. "I see that 'Oottat' is 'Tattoo' backwards, but what did the 'H. L.' stand for?"

Leslie grinned, brushing tears away. "Hot Lips," she said, and laughter exploded out of all of them, including Roarke. "Oh my God, he could be such a skirt-chaser sometimes, before he met Solange and finally lost his heart for real. And there were a lot of times when it got him into some incredible trouble."

"But he couldn't have spent all his time chasing girls," Michiko said, still giggling. "I know he was really fond of kids. He must have doted on his own three, and I could tell he thought you were pretty neat yourself, Leslie. A surrogate niece or something, isn't that the way he thought of you?"

"Essentially, yes," Roarke answered for his daughter, slipping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing. "Occasionally, however, they had their differences. During the first week Leslie was learning how to drive, he flatly refused to ride anywhere with her."

"As if he was any sterling example himself," Leslie scoffed playfully. "Remember when you had me watch him backing up, thinking I could get a good idea of how to do it from him? He always drove as if someone were chasing him and he had to get away."

"That's true, he did," Roarke agreed, and together he and Leslie related the story for her friends.

§ § § -- March 10, 1980

On their way back out of the hotel, Roarke and Leslie met Tattoo, looking a bit disgruntled, in the lobby. "Jean-Claude again?" Roarke inquired.

"Of course," Tattoo snorted. "Now he wants Maine lobster and Alaskan king-crab legs. Do you know how much that stuff costs?" He shook his head in annoyance. "He must be planning some kind of seafood menu this week, but I suppose mahimahi and mako aren't enough for him now. Next week he'll want swordfish and caviar, probably."

"Maine lobster is good," Leslie said as the threesome walked out. We had it sometimes before we moved from Connecticut."

"Didn't it cost an arm and a leg?" Tattoo asked.

"Not if you're in Maine," Leslie told him.

He rolled his eyes. "Does this look like Maine to you?" He caught Roarke's mildly admonishing look and said, "Sorry, boss. I guess Jean-Claude's attitude just really gets to me. How's the driving lesson going?"

"Very well so far," Roarke said. "Leslie, the next errand will be to go into Amberville and reorder flowers for Friday, so they will be fresh for the arriving guests. You do know where the florist shop is, don't you?"

"I think so," said Leslie. "You might have to give me some directions. See you later on, Tattoo."

"_Au revoir,"_ he responded and got into his car. Roarke saw an opportunity and directed Leslie's attention toward it.

"Tattoo will have to back out," he said. "Watch how he does it."

Tattoo's car roared to life, and a bare second later he began to back right out of his space, glancing around perfunctorily. Once he was clear of the nearest vehicle, he shifted gears and tore out of the parking lot as though he had three police cars in hot pursuit. Leslie turned to Roarke with a dubious look on her face, and he cleared his throat. "Well…perhaps that's not the best example," he admitted. "All right then, we'll take it a step at a time."

§ § § -- July 20, 1995

"But he obviously didn't have that attitude forever," Lauren pointed out.

"No, because he was with me when I finally let Jean-Claude have it for the way he was treating me, and he defended my driving like a champ. I don't think Jean-Claude knew what hit him." Leslie giggled and told them all that part of the story; since Roarke hadn't been there, it was the first time he, too, had heard about it.

§ § § -- March 14, 1980

On Friday morning Leslie realized that Camille's birthday was the next day, and she had never managed to find time to get her friend a gift. "Is there any way we could stop off in Amberville?" she asked, explaining her reason to Roarke.

Roarke, who sat at his desk faced with that day's mail, his date book which lay open to July, a stack of invoices and a small pile of telephone messages, shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't spare the time," he told her. "Perhaps tonight if we finish everything in time, but at the moment there is too much to do." He noticed her crestfallen look and had a sudden idea. "However, I believe you could go on your own. Tattoo?"

Tattoo came in from the flagstone patio where he had been speaking with a few of the native girls. "Yes, boss?" he said.

"Leslie needs to take a short shopping trip," Roarke said, "and I have too many things waiting for me here to take time away and accompany her. There is no reason she can't drive herself, but she does need a licensed driver with her. So I would appreciate it if you would go along and supervise her driving."

"But boss…I've got a lot to do myself," Tattoo protested, "don't I?"

"You mean you _wish_ you did," Leslie said, scowling. "Now I know why I've hardly seen you all week. You always manage to find a reason not to come along when you hear I'm driving." Tattoo looked guiltily away, and Roarke glanced back and forth between them.

"Is there a problem, Tattoo?" he asked.

Looking trapped, Tattoo stared at Roarke, looked at Leslie over his shoulder and then back at Roarke again. "You sure she's not gonna crash the car, boss?"

"You should talk," Leslie retorted, goaded. "I've seen the way you drive."

"Far be it from me to be what Leslie referred to as a backseat driver," Roarke said, "but she does have a point, my friend. Consider it a break from your rounds, and relax. She actually is becoming a good driver. If she errs on the side of caution, you must admit it's far preferable to erring in the other direction."

Tattoo mulled this over and sighed after a moment. "Well, boss, if you say she's not a bad driver, then I guess I should take your word for it. Okay, Leslie, I'll go along with you. I hope you aren't going to take long, though."

"I'll try not to," Leslie said dryly, still stinging from Tattoo's assessment of her driving ability. "But you know us girls and shopping…we just can't help ourselves."

"If you're going, you'd better leave now," Roarke interjected, clearly in the hope of putting an end to their sparring, at least in his presence. "Once you're back, we'll have lunch, and then we need to accomplish a great deal through the afternoon."

Tattoo followed Leslie to a car parked in the lane and climbed into the passenger seat, watching her warily as she settled into the driver's seat and followed her mental checklist, murmuring each step to herself as she went through it. In less than a minute they were on the Ring Road and moving at a respectable pace; since Monday, Leslie had grown accustomed enough to driving that she felt comfortable with a little extra speed. Roarke had said it made a very good improvement from her snail's pace of Monday.

"Hm," Tattoo said finally. "I take it back, Leslie. You _are_ pretty good for a brand-new driver. So what are you getting Camille for her birthday?"

For awhile they chatted a bit as Leslie drove; then a sudden high-pitched, very loud buzzing noise became audible from somewhere. Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other. "What's that?" Leslie exclaimed.

"I hope it's not the car," said Tattoo.

She was just approaching a curve in the road when this noise began, and when she was halfway through the bend, a heavyset man on a moped—the source of the noise—buzzed around going the other way. The moped rider looked up as he saw the car; he and Leslie recognized each other at the same moment, and she scowled at him before quickly returning her attention to the road and coming out of the curve. No sooner had she done so than there was a howl of panic and a loud crash; the buzzing moped fell abruptly silent.

Leslie stopped the car, barely remembering not to jam on the brakes. "That was Jean-Claude!" she cried at Tattoo. "Do you think…"

Tattoo's dark eyes widened and he cautiously cast a glance over the back seats. There was nothing visible from their vantage point, so he said, "Wait here and I'll take a look," got out of the car and walked back around the curve. He wasn't very far down the road, so Leslie heard the curse he expelled. Dread roosted in her stomach while she put the car in _park_, killed the engine and got out to see what had made Tattoo swear…


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- March 14, 1980, _continued_

"Oh my God," she gasped, stunned. Jean-Claude was just picking himself up off the ground; his moped leaned against a tree, smoke drifting out of its tiny engine.

"You!" he shouted the moment he spotted Leslie. _"You_ did zees to me! I 'ave your 'ead for zees, you 'ear me?"

"You're crazy," Tattoo snapped at him. "Leslie didn't do anything wrong. She was driving just like she should have been. You're the one who crashed."

"She _make_ me crash!" Jean-Claude railed and lapsed into a stream of furious, frenetic French, directing half his diatribe at Leslie and the other half at Tattoo. Something he said made Tattoo's eyes go huge with outrage, and he barked out a sharp retort in his native tongue. For a moment Jean-Claude glared at him, and then the two of them were carrying on in loud, overheated French. Leslie stared at them, astonished.

After several minutes of this, a jeep rounded the bend in the direction Jean-Claude had been going, and pulled to a stop nearby. It turned out to be Masako Tokita, Michiko's father, on his way home for lunch. "Is something wrong?" he inquired.

"Hello, Sheriff Tokita," Tattoo said. "I guess you could say something's wrong." He proceeded to explain what had happened while Sheriff Tokita listened calmly; he nodded now and then, without speaking, till Tattoo was finished.

"Miss Leslie, is that right?" Sheriff Tokita asked.

She nodded. "The only difference is, I didn't see what Jean-Claude did. I mean, I looked at him long enough to recognize him, but I looked right back at the road, and then when I finished turning, we heard the crash."

"She make me crash," Jean-Claude said accusingly and immediately launched into his side of the story. Tattoo stood there rolling his eyes, while Leslie tried to wade through the man's thick French accent, as heavy as Tattoo's but in a different way. Leslie was used to Tattoo's speech but not Jean-Claude's; for some reason they sounded different to her.

"It's your own fault," Tattoo said finally. "I saw you. You were staring so hard at Leslie that you totally forgot you were driving. What's wrong with you anyway? Haven't you ever seen a student driver before?"

"Zat girl drive?" Jean-Claude hooted. "I see her wiz _m'sieur_ Roarke ze uzzer day. She seet een ze parking lot an' not move, an' she drive slowair zan a sleeping turtle."

Leslie had finally reached her limit with this man. "You think you have room to criticize me, you grumpy old grouch?" she yelled at him. "I'm not the one who just had a wreck because he was staring at something besides the road! Maybe you better stick to cooking and leave the driving to someone who knows how!" She turned to Sheriff Tokita, her eyes already filling with tears of frustrated rage. "Is it okay if we go, Mr. Tokita? I mean, we have a lot to do, and I don't want to listen to him screaming at me for something that wasn't even my fault."

Sheriff Tokita chuckled. "Yes, I can see you two weren't responsible for the accident. I'll handle it from here. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me." Leslie nodded in response, not trusting her voice, and headed for the car as fast as she could without breaking into a run. Tattoo did have to run to keep up with her.

She thumped into the driver's seat, and the moment Tattoo had climbed in on the passenger side, she burst into tears, resting her head on one arm laid over the top of the steering wheel.. "I wish Mr. Roarke would fire him," she sobbed. "He hates me for no good reason and he's the meanest old fool I ever met."

"Hey, hey, calm down," Tattoo exclaimed, reaching over and patting her arm. "That's just the way Jean-Claude is. He hates everybody, Leslie, not just you. The thing about him is, he'll run all over you if you let him. You just have to make sure he knows who's the boss."

"He _does_ know who's the boss," Leslie said through her tears. "Mr. Roarke."

Tattoo grinned to himself, making sure she didn't see it. "Aw, come on, Leslie," he said. "I saw the look on his face when you yelled at him. He looked like he didn't know what had hit him. I bet he thinks twice about saying anything next time he sees you. That was great, Leslie…I was really proud of you. More people should give him what-for when he starts acting like that. Usually they're too scared of him because of his temper."

She had lifted her head from the steering wheel and was staring at him in surprise, tears still leaking from her eyes. "Really?"

"Really," Tattoo assured her. "You've proved it, Leslie—you're gonna be an excellent driver. Every word he said is nonsense, and don't you forget it." He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and offered it to her. "So don't let him get to you. Something tells me he's going to treat you with a lot more respect from now on…and he might even cook a special dinner just for you."

"In your dreams," Leslie scoffed, mopping her face. "That grouchy old goat wouldn't even fix _himself_ a special dinner if it meant doing something nice." Tattoo burst into laughter at her assessment, and she finally produced a watery grin. "Do you really think I'm doing okay? I know you didn't want to come with me and Mr. Roarke all week during my lessons, so I figured you thought I was going to be a lousy driver or something."

"Hah," said Tattoo. "Well, I've changed my mind. Jean-Claude's probably had a license longer than you've been alive, and you're still a better driver than he is." At that, she joined in his laughter, and he gestured at the road. "To town, _mon chauffeur._ You've got a birthday present to buy."

§ § § -- July 20, 1995

After the laughter had died out and a few moments of reflective silence had passed, Roarke took up the narrative thread. "Leslie, you may not remember this, but it stands out in my memory," he said. "You might recall how Tattoo surprised us the year of the mother-daughter talent show at your school and turned out to be one of the judges. Well, the next year when it was decided to hold a father-daughter talent show and you talked me into performing with you, Tattoo faced a dilemma he hadn't quite expected…"

§ § § -- April 5, 1983

Bewildered and a little frustrated from searching everywhere he could think of, Tattoo careened down the road in his specially-built car. What had happened to his boss and Leslie? He glanced to the side of the road and spotted a red station wagon sitting in the small dirt lot in front of the supper club, and slammed on his brakes, nearly overshooting the turnoff and skidding around almost 180 degrees before the little vehicle stopped. Tattoo blew out his breath and drove a trace more sedately into the lot, parking beside the other car and clambering out; then he headed at a half-run to the door and burst inside. A few tentative piano notes sounded from the far side of the main dining room, and Tattoo moved far enough in to note that he had at last tracked down his quarry.

"Boss! Leslie! I've been looking all over the place for you," he exclaimed, weaving through the tables till he reached the pair at the piano. Both Roarke and Leslie stared at him in surprise. "Mariki's holding supper for us, and I've probably covered half the island trying to find you. What are you doing here?"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and both grinned sheepishly, an expression unusual on Roarke. "I apologize, my friend, we neglected to tell you," Roarke said. "The high school senior class is holding a father-daughter talent show, and—"

"Oh, I know that, but what's that got to do with this?" Tattoo broke in. "Can't we talk about it later? Supper's waiting and I'm hungry."

Leslie sat up in surprise. "I am too," she exclaimed. "Could we come back tomorrow, Mr. Roarke?"

"Why don't you go on ahead, Leslie," Roarke said. "Tattoo and I will catch up with you at the house. Take the car, I'll walk back." Leslie shrugged, gathered up some sheets of paper and left the club without further urging.

Roarke turned to his assistant when she was gone. "Actually, Tattoo, it has a great deal to do with this," he said. "Leslie persuaded me to participate in the show with her this year, and we are performing 'Baby, It's Cold Outside' as a duet."

Tattoo gaped at him. "What?…boss, you're kidding!"

"Is that such a shock to you?" Roarke asked, looking slightly put out.

Tattoo looked puzzled for a moment, then realized what Roarke meant. "Oh, I don't mean any offense by it, boss," he said. "But I wish you'd told me before."

"Before what?" Roarke prodded, shifting on the piano bench to fully face Tattoo.

Tattoo sighed heavily and said, "You see, I was asked to be a judge again this year. I told them I'd do it, since I had such fun judging last year's contest. But I can't now—it'll make the whole thing look rigged!"

Roarke studied him in surprise. "Indeed! How so?"

Tattoo rolled his eyes. "Boss, I work with you, and everybody knows I think of Leslie as a niece. It'll be nepotism, don't you see? I can't judge this contest with my boss and my niece being a part of it. If you win, somebody's bound to cry foul."

"If it bothers you so much, Tattoo, then simply explain that you can't do it for ethical reasons," Roarke said reasonably.

"I would…but they can't get anyone else. None of the teachers has any time, they told me. They need three judges and if I back out, they won't be able to get a replacement."

Roarke nodded slowly, considering this. Tattoo sighed again and started to pace the floor near the piano, muttering to himself in French. After a few minutes something seemed to occur to him and he paused to stare at Roarke, who had been watching him in a faintly-amused silence. "Boss, you said you're doing a duet with Leslie? Can she sing?"

"She can hold her own," Roarke said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah?" Tattoo looked skeptical.

Roarke half-grinned and inquired, "Why?"

"I was just thinking that if she's not that good, then I wouldn't have to worry about you two winning," Tattoo said, resuming his pacing and thus unaware of the reproving look Roarke directed at him. "That way I could judge the contest knowing there'd be less chance of people claiming it was fixed."

"My dear Tattoo," said Roarke with an ominous tinge to his tone, "you are very fortunate indeed that I sent Leslie ahead to the main house, for if she had heard you say that, I suspect she would have taken very grave offense indeed."

Tattoo rolled his eyes and threw his hands into the air. "All I meant was…oh, never mind. Did she really have to do this?"

Roarke looked away for a moment, a bit exasperated. "My friend, surely you haven't forgotten last year, when the talent show was for mothers and daughters, and Leslie felt left out since she was the only one in her group who wasn't eligible on that basis. Now that she has the chance to participate, do you really want to take that away from her?"

Tattoo winced at the memory. "That's the thing that bothers me the most. It just wouldn't be fair of me to be a judge now."

"Then perhaps you might try to find a substitute before you break the news to the judging committee," Roarke suggested. "That way, it wouldn't be necessary for _them_ to find a replacement for you, and the problem would be solved."

"That's a good idea, boss, thanks," Tattoo exclaimed with profound relief. "Just do me a favor, please—don't say anything to Leslie. I wouldn't want her to get upset."

Roarke smiled. "Of course not, my friend, of course not. Now, why don't we get back to the main house and have our meal before Mariki's temper really boils over."

§ § § -- July 20, 1995

Leslie stared at Roarke in amazement. "I never even knew you had that conversation. He must have managed to find the replacement, because I know he wasn't on the judging committee that year. But I don't remember who _was_."

Michiko grinned, turning pink. "Actually, Tattoo finally discovered I wasn't singing in the contest, since I won the previous year's competition, and he asked me to do it."

"Not that it mattered," Leslie said ruefully, grinning back. "We lost anyway." Again they all laughed; already they were feeling better, and everyone settled around the room to share their memories of Tattoo in more depth.

Dusk was shading the sky when Leslie's friends finally made their way home, and Roarke regarded the tape that now lay on the corner of his desk. The Saturday-night luau had, of course, been canceled, and most vacationers had returned home after Tattoo's funeral the previous day. So things were uncommonly quiet, lending a peculiar aura of gloom to the island. Perhaps the time was right.

Roarke picked up the tape and met Leslie's gaze. "What do you think?"

She heaved a deep breath and slowly arose from her chair. "I guess we should." But she looked apprehensive, and Roarke patted her shoulder before leading the way upstairs.

During Tattoo's last year on the island, Roarke had extended a small upstairs room down the hall from Leslie's bedroom, so that there was an elevated enclosed porch that had its own exterior entrance and was located above and to the left of the flagstone terrace behind the study. In the first year after Leslie had been widowed and returned to the island, they had had this room fully weatherproofed and turned into a sort of den, where they kept a television set, VCR, stereo system, and their personal music and video collections. Across from the large oaken entertainment unit sat a plush sofa with a sturdy wood-and-glass coffee table in front of it, atop a large area rug in white stripes alternating with stripes ranging from blue to green and all variations in between. Two paintings that Tattoo had given Roarke many years before hung over the sofa.

It was here that Roarke and Leslie now retreated to receive Tattoo's very last message to them. Leslie slipped back out to get a box of tissues from the bathroom, while Roarke put the tape in the VCR and settled onto the sofa. As soon as Leslie had returned and sat beside him, he started the tape.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- July 20, 1995

A few moments of black screen came up first, over which was superimposed white block text that simply gave the date the tape had been made—June 28, 1995; then a picture swam into view, showing Tattoo seated comfortably in an easy chair. Leslie recognized the setting as being the family room in Tattoo and Solange's home. Only half realizing it, she caught Roarke's hand and held on as if for dear life.

Tattoo gazed solemnly at them from the television screen; they both noted with a jolt that his hair had gone almost totally gray, even white in some places. He looked older than his true age, and he seemed worn out. They could tell that it was an effort for him to breathe; but when he spoke, his voice still sounded exactly as they remembered it.

"_Hi, boss and Leslie. I hope Solange followed my instructions and waited to give you this till just before she took the kids home. I wanted the two of you to see it in private, and together if possible. If there's only one of you here, stop the tape and get the other."_ Tattoo smirked after a moment. _"You're both here now? Good. If you were both here from the start, well, never mind." _He grinned outright, unconsciously evoking like responses from Roarke and Leslie._ "Aaaahh, I really hate being as serious as this…I just had to have a little humor there. Anyway, I guess I better get down to business."_ His levity vanished and he cleared his throat, studying his folded hands with their stubby fingers that had all the same allowed him to express his incredible talent on canvas. When he looked up, he seemed tormented. _"I thought it was only fair to tell you how I was feeling and to express my gratitude again. I mean, heck, boss…I know I've said 'thank you' before, but it never really seemed like enough. I know I'm dying and there isn't much time left, but I'm going to give it my best shot anyway, so forgive me if this doesn't come out the way I want it to. _

"_It's just that I spent so much of my adult life on the island. I think I was barely old enough to be legal when I came to Fantasy Island, and you remember what condition I was in then, boss. I was out of money and I'd been rejected everywhere else I went. People laughed in my face, said horrible things to me, made me feel like I was nothing. I was half starved and my clothes were rags, and I was all but ready to kill myself._

"_But you saved my life, boss. I guess you didn't really need an assistant back then, but you created the position for me anyway and built that cottage for me so I could have a place of my own. And then the business started catching on and people started getting word of this wonderful island, and one day when I'd been there a few months, you said to me, 'Tattoo, it was a very lucky day for me when you arrived here. You will be an invaluable help to me now that we're becoming so busy.' Can you imagine how great that made me feel, boss? For the first time since I was a child, someone needed me around. I had a place and a purpose, and I felt like life was worth living again. You gave me that, boss, that and so much more over the years. I know, sometimes I acted pretty crazy, especially in those years when my cousin Hugo thought he could help me out with some silly instant-millionaire scheme of his. But he was just trying to make things easier for me. It took me ages to realize that you had already done that. You know something, boss? After I married Solange and came back to Paris, Hugo called me one day and said he was really impressed by Fantasy Island and all the beauty and luxury he saw there when he came for our wedding. He said I should've told him what it was really like there, and he would've known I was doing all right and wouldn't need to worry about me like he did."_

Leslie, wide-eyed with discovery at these revelations, glanced at Roarke in wonder and then looked again; tears stood in Roarke's eyes. She squeezed his hand and returned her attention to the television screen just in time for Tattoo to clear his throat, take a deep but labored breath, and then smile a little.

"_Well, Leslie, it's your turn, so watch out."_ He grinned wickedly, and Leslie giggled in spite of herself. _"No, actually, it's all good. Well, mostly good…heh heh."_ Finally he grew serious once more. _"I remember so clearly the day you first came to the island. You looked so small and scared coming off the plane. I don't know what it was about you that got to me like that. I mean, I always liked kids, and I was there when the boss raised Cindy…you remember her, right? She actually wasn't there that long, only a couple of years or so. She was almost seventeen when she was orphaned and the boss had her with him the rest of her junior year and her senior year in high school. Then she went off-island to college and that was that._

"_But you…for some reason you were different. You were younger, and you'd already seen some tragedy before you lost your family. I think something about you reminded me of me, before I came to the island. You were as lost and scared as I was, and you had this sort of haunted look about you. You were afraid of everything, especially the boss. And I guess I wanted to try to do for you what the boss did for me—make you feel that you had a home and a reason to go on living._

"_I'm so glad the boss adopted you and made you his daughter, Leslie, you know that? I used to wonder what was going to happen to him after I left the island. Well, I mean, he did have Jamie Marsh—you know, Helena's son. But he wasn't really the boss's legal heir or anything like that, and besides, I don't think Jamie would've been interested. He had another mission in life. And the boss seemed lost and lonely to me after Helena died. So it was great to hear when he wrote and told me he had made it official and adopted you. You got into the business almost from the start, and even if you kept messing things up all the time in the beginning, you tried your best and you turned out to be a real asset. I feel better about the boss now that you're his assistant, Leslie. I wish you hadn't had to lose your husband for it to happen, but I think some things happen for a reason. Remember when I told you a few years ago that you'd remember Teppo with smiles instead of tears? I hope that's what you're doing, and someday you'll remember me the same way."_ His features took on a look of mock threat. _"You better, Leslie Susan Hamilton, or else I promise you I'm gonna come back and haunt you till you shape up."_ He grinned as if in response to Leslie's teary laugh.

"_Okay, well, I guess that's all. I really wanted to tell you that before it was too late and you never had the chance to know. I'm gonna miss you both, believe me. You'll always be members of my family…always. Thank you both for being part of my life."_ He smiled and lifted a hand in farewell, and the picture slowly faded to black.

Leslie turned to Roarke, tears streaming down her cheeks again. "I hope he's right. I want to remember him the way he wanted—with more smiles than tears." She stopped and caught her breath, mopping her face with a tissue. "It's just that it's so hard right now."

"I know," Roarke said softly, drawing her in against him and patting her arm as she laid her head on his shoulder. "But time will pass, and the pain will ease, and all the happy memories we have of Tattoo will come to the fore. They will be what we recall whenever someone mentions him." He paused for a moment, thinking back over what he and Leslie had just heard. "Tattoo spoke of all the things we gave him, but perhaps we should focus on what he gave you and me. He enriched both our lives; neither of us would be quite the same had Tattoo not been here."

She nodded slowly. "That's true…and I think he gave more than he received. He left so many memories and legacies, nobody will ever forget him."

"Least of all you and I," Roarke murmured agreement, and let his gaze drift to the ceiling, as if something hovered there that only he could see. Then he smiled.

* * *

**Episode Credits:**

_The "invisible man" story came from a previously unposted piece I wrote revolving around a sketch that aired during the March 1, 1980, episode "Nona / One Million B.C.". The memory of Tattoo's attempt to invent rocket fuel was an ongoing gag throughout the episode of May 12, 1979, "Bowling / Command Performance". The recollection of Tattoo's Bing Crosby impersonation goes back to the May 5, 1979, episode "The Comic / The Golden Hour". Finally, Leslie's citation of the fantasy Tattoo requested under an alias refers to the September 21, 1979, episode "Tattoo: the Love God / Magnolia Blossoms"._

_Thank you, Hervé Villechaize, for giving such vivid and indelible life to the character of Tattoo. This is my tribute to you and the character…may you both rest in peace, knowing you are missed._


End file.
